The summer after eighth grade passed fairly uneventfully. It was filled with the usual Bible study/pool parties, church youth camp, and choir tour. That summer we also moved into our brand new house on the south side of town. Mom and dad had drawn up the plans themselves and had the house of their dreams built. "It's reminiscent of Colonial Williamsburg," mom would say wistfully. It was four thousand square feet of grey siding, raised dormers, wrap-around porch, and American Colonialism in a gated community. It also had a pool. I was allowed to get my first two-piece that summer. But strictly for use in the back yard when we did not have male guests over to the house.
Before I knew it, it was time to go back to school. Ninth grade. I was officially in high school. And at Heritage Christian School, being in ninth grade was a big deal. And as new high school students, we were reminded that the younger children were looking to us to lead the way as good examples. "To whom much is given, much is required," our headmasters reminded us.
The regimented Christian school prided itself on producing excellent Christian citizens of high moral character. We were taught the rudiments of the Christian faith through the words of history of our great country's founding fathers day in and day out. We memorized the preamble to the constitution and we poured over works by Thomas Payne. We lugged around huge volumes of historical writings and analyzed them and tried to decipher God's original plan for our great nation, before the waters got muddied by liberals, democrats, and feminists.
Our ninth grade class was small, and we were very close. Most of our waking moments were spent with friends-- at football games, at sleep overs, at birthday parties, and at church. Even if we didn't all attend the same churches because we lived in different parts of town, our families all held the same beliefs, and our churches even went to camps together. So our social circles were tight. Our lives were intertwined on many levels.
Ninth grade was underway and going just swimmingly. And winter was upon us.
Oklahoma is brutally cold in February-- when it's not pretending to be springtime. Sunday mornings we routinely hectic at our house. Dad left early, usually before my sister and I woke up, because he preached both the 8:30 and 10:30 services at the Baptist church where he pastored. Dani and I would wake blurry-eyed at 7:30 secretly wishing we could sleep in, but never daring to mention it. It wasn't an option. Since the day I was born, I had been to church every time the doors were open-- Sunday morning Sunday school and service, Wednesday night service, and any other special events that fell in between. Dad had been a pastor for as long as I could remember. First in Arkansas, where I was born, then in Texas for a few years, and then in Oklahoma where I had lived since I was seven.
Everyone at church always made jokes about how stressful Sunday mornings seemed to be, getting the whole family presentable and ready to go to God's House (dad liked to joke that God lived in the auditorium behind the baptistery), and our family was really no different. There were showers to be taken, hair to be done, dresses to be ironed and put on, breakfast to be eaten, and all done in time to arrive at Sunday School, Bibles in hand, at 9 a.m.
This Sunday morning was particularly cold, so I put on the black pea coat and red gloves mom had bought me earlier in the winter and went downstairs to wait in the car until Dani was ready to go and we could leave. Dani was always running late. Even at eleven years old it took her more than an hour to do her hair and pick out what she was going to wear. She was late, but she was extremely proud of the fact she had perfect attendance at both Sunday School and school. One morning we sat in the car in the driveway for thirteen minutes waiting on her to finish doing her hair so we could leave for school. Mom told her that if she was not ready to go on time the next morning, we would leave her at home and she wouldn't be able to go to school. And mom had that tone. When she meant business, you knew it. You didn't test mom. Dani was in the car waiting for us the next morning when it was time to go.
We made the fifteen minute drive from the south side of Oklahoma City to Moore and pulled into the parking lot of the massive First Baptist Church just in time.